Part Two: The Rabbit
I was standing behind the house, trying to finish hanging laundry, when I heard scratching at the back gate.
It was soft and deliberate—like someone knocking gently because they did not want to frighten me.
I wiped my hands on my sweater and walked over.
When I opened the gate, the dog sat on the other side.
His tail moved in small, careful sweeps.
Something hung from his mouth.
At first, I thought it was a dirty rag. Then I saw the shape of it.
“Oh,” I whispered. “Oh, sweetheart.”
The dog waited until I crouched down. Only then did he lower his head and place the object at my feet.
It was a stuffed rabbit.
The toy had once been gray, but dirt and age had turned it a dull brown. One ear had been chewed nearly in half.
I knew that ear.
My hands began to tremble.
“Where did you find this?”
The dog simply stared at me.
I picked up the rabbit. The fabric was stiff with dirt, but beneath it I could still recognize the familiar shape.
Ethan had slept with this rabbit almost every night of his childhood.
He had carried it from room to room, taken it on car trips, and refused to sleep without it. The toy had disappeared when he was six, during the months when Marlene looked after him several days a week.
I had searched everywhere.
I had emptied boxes, opened closets, and dug through the garage until my knees hurt. I had cried over that rabbit because, at the time, I could not cry over anything else.
Now it was lying in my hands again.
“That’s impossible,” I murmured.
The dog remained still.
As I turned the rabbit over, something hard shifted inside its body.
I froze.
There was something hidden beneath the stuffing.
I hurried into the kitchen and placed the toy on the counter. The dog stayed outside the screen door, watching me.
“Don’t leave,” I told him. “Please.”
My phone began to ring.
Marlene’s name appeared on the screen.
I almost ignored it, but guilt made me answer.
“Diane, darling,” she said warmly. “I just wanted to see how you were doing.”
“I’m fine.”
“You sound breathless.”
“I was hanging laundry.”
There was a pause.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” she said. “You still go to the cemetery every Sunday, don’t you?”
I looked at the rabbit.
“Yes.”
“Diane, it has been two years. You can’t keep living there.”
Her words had once made me feel cared for. That day, they felt strangely controlling.
“Ethan wouldn’t want you to stay buried in grief,” she continued.
“I can’t talk right now.”
“Please listen to me. I’m only saying this because I love you.”
“I have to go.”
I ended the call before she could say anything else.
My hands shook as I picked up a pair of scissors.
Carefully, I opened the old seam along the rabbit’s back.
Yellowed stuffing spilled onto the counter.
Then a folded piece of lined paper and a small metal key fell from inside.
The key was tarnished and tiny—the kind used for a padlock.
I unfolded the paper.
The handwriting was uneven and childish.
But I knew it immediately.
It was Ethan’s.
The message contained only six words:
For Mama. Aunt M said don’t tell.
I sank onto the kitchen stool.
Outside, the dog was still staring through the screen door.
As if he had been waiting for me to find that note.
